“We will certainly pray about it,” Marian put in, but Vernon always took the more pragmatic approach.
“Why don’t I run this by Craig Adler? He’s just been promoted to some sort of vice presidency at the airline. He might have some ideas.”
Mitch straightened in surprise. “Is Mr. Adler still working? I thought he retired some time ago.”
Vernon chuckled and stuck his pipe into the corner of his mouth, speaking around it. “They’ll have to blast old Craig out of his chair and take him straight from there to the morgue.” Narrowing his eyes, he added, “Craig doesn’t have any reason to want to stay home and take it easy.”
Mitch ducked his head smiling at the not-so-subtle hint. Craig Adler’s wife had divorced him nearly twenty years ago, and the experience had so soured him on marriage that he’d remained single. Apparently he’d devoted his life to work ever since. The implication, of course, was that Mitch, too, was in danger of making that same mistake. Obviously he was right to keep mum about meeting Piper again, Mitch deduced. No telling what they’d make of that.
Mitch got his sudden smile under control, looked his dad in the eye and said, “Can’t hurt to run it by him, and meanwhile I’ll follow Mom’s advice.” Since she was sitting right next to him, he patted her on the knee.
“Your father didn’t mean anything by that last remark,” she assured him.
“Yes, I did,” Vernon instantly refuted. “Mitch works too much. If he’s really interested in finding someone to spend his life with, then he’s going to have to cut back on his hours. You said it yourself.”
“I also said we should keep our opinions to ourselves,” she scolded benignly, shaking a finger at him.
He gave her a droll look over the bowl of his pipe. ‘You’ve been married to me long enough to know better than that.”
She rolled her eyes, saw that Mitch was trying not to laugh and threw up her hands. “So I have, you meddling old mother hen.”
Vernon clamped the pipe stem between his teeth, looked at his son and quipped, “Ah, the joys of married life.”
Mitch laughed at them both. His father grinned unrepentantly while Marian folded her arms in a mock huff. “If it makes you feel any better,” he heard himself saying, “I saw her again.” So much for keeping quiet.
“Her?” Vernon echoed, forehead beetling.
Marian clasped her hands together. “The girl on the plane! The one with the pretty name.”
“Piper Wynne,” Mitch confirmed. “Turns out she works just down the street from me, but that’s all I know about her. And that’s all I have to say on the subject.”
“For now,” Vernon qualified with a flourish of his pipe. “Well, well,” he mused, inserting the stem between his lips again.
Well, well, indeed, Mitch thought, looking at his mother’s shining eyes. He couldn’t help wondering how long they had kept silent, waiting for him to be ready to love again. It was to be expected from his mother, but his father had shown great restraint and respect. Thinking of his garrulous, take-charge father biting his tongue for only God knew how long stunned Mitch.
He cleared his throat and softly asked, “Have I told you two lately how much I love you?”
Vernon removed the pipe from his mouth, smiled and looked down, brushing at imaginary lint on his thigh. Marian’s hand closed tenderly over Mitch’s forearm.
“It’s always good to hear,” she said softly.
Mitch sat back and lightened the moment by asking, “What’s for dinner?”
His mother hopped up and headed to the kitchen, answering him over her shoulder, “Your favorite, of course—chicken potpie.”
Vernon waited until she was out of earshot before confiding, “When I asked, she told me leftovers.” He stuck the pipe between his teeth and winked. “Glad you came over.”
Mitch just smiled.
Piper bit off a chunk of sandwich and momentarily turned her face up to the sun, eyes closed. The air felt like silk today, thanks to unusually mild temperatures and a steady breeze that blew the pollution southward. Chewing rapidly, she looked down at the folded newspaper in her lap, her gaze skimming an article on the so-called megachurches in the area. Suddenly a shadow fell across the newsprint. When it failed to move on, she glanced up.
Mitch Sayer stood in front of her, smiling, a hot dog cradled in a waxed wrapper in one hand, his suit coat draped through the crook of his other arm.
She lowered the newspaper to her lap. “Hello again.”
“Hello.” He lifted his eyebrows as if for permission to snoop. She nodded slightly, and he tilted his head to get a look at what she was reading. “Looking for a church?”
She thought of it more as preparing to look. “Starting to.”
“I’d be delighted if you’d try mine.”
She made no reply to that beyond a tight smile, but somehow she wasn’t surprised to find that he was a practicing Christian.
“May I sit?” He indicated the stone bench that she was occupying.
She pulled her nylon lunch bag a little closer. “Sure.”
Mitch tossed his coat over the end of the bench and sat, biting into the hot dog. She saw that he took it covered in chili, cheese and jalapeño peppers.
“You really do like the spicy stuff, don’t you?”
He looked over his meal and said, “This one’s mild. I forgo the onions when I have a meeting too soon after lunch.”
She grinned. “Considerate of you.”
“Even murderers and thugs can smell,” he quipped. Seeing her shock, he apologized. “Sorry. Little jailhouse humor. I forget it’s not always appropriate.”
She shook her head. “No, it’s all right. You said you were a lawyer. I just didn’t think…”
“Criminal law,” he supplied, and she nodded.
“I figured corporate something or other.”
“I’m a defense attorney,” he told her forthrightly. “Dirty job, but someone’s got to do it—someone who actually cares about justice, preferably.” He bit off a huge chunk of the chili dog.
“And that would be you,” she hazarded.
He nodded, chewing, and swallowed. “I do, actually.” He waved a hand. “I consider it more of a calling than a profession, which is not to say that I don’t find it exciting at times.”
“I can imagine.” The emergency room had often been an exciting place to work, too, until… She pushed that thought away. “So, do you have any high-profile clients at the moment?”
“A couple,” he answered matter-of-factly, shifting on the hard bench. “You heard about a case where a couple of kids took to playing practical jokes on one another and one of them went wrong, put out the eye of an eleven-year-old?”
She shook her head. “No, I live, er, lived in Houston until recently.”
“Well,” he said, “my client is the kid who rigged his buddy’s lunch box with a small explosion. It wasn’t a bomb—it was just supposed to make a popping sound. Unfortunately, his buddy’s little brother took the wrong lunch box to school that morning, and he happened to be holding a fork in his fist when he opened it. You can guess what happened.”
“Oh, that’s awful.”
“Sure is, and with school violence on everyone’s mind lately, my client found himself